wondering if they were so wrong. Henry uses men. Time and again I’ve heard your father say it, time and again I’ve seen him do it and been used myself. Is it any wonder that I begin to feel like a whore?’
She leaned over him and smoothed the lines that had reappeared between his brows. He laced his fingers in her bright hair and told her the nature of the message he was to bear.
Heulwen was momentarily surprised, but hardly shocked. Henry had attempted a marriage alliance like this before, between Geoffrey of Anjou’s sister and the son he had lost on the
‘So I keep telling myself,’ he said woodenly.
‘And if you renounced your allegiance, which would be the only honourable alternative, you’d have to sell your sword for a living, and I warrant that Henry would still have his way in the end.’
‘Principles do not put bread on your board. Is that what you are saying?’
‘I am saying there is no point going breadless for an inevitability. If your conscience troubles you, it is a sign you still have your honour. I don’t think Ralf ever suffered from either, and therein lies the difference.’ She assessed him, trying to decide whether his expression meant that he had heard her and was considering, or if he was just being obdurate. She folded her arms upon his chest. ‘You had better tell me how long I have to pack my travelling chests, and do I bring a maid, and is Geoffrey of Anjou really as handsome as they say?’
Adam sighed and pulled her mouth down hard to his in a kiss that was as much a reprimand as a token of affection. ‘What would I do without you?’
‘Brood yourself head-first into the nearest firkin of wine!’ she retorted.
It was not so far from the truth, he thought, letting her go and watching her as she picked up a comb and began to work her hair into a straight skein ready for braiding. She knew exactly how to cozen him out of a bad mood, although at the present, new as it was and so long waited for, just the sight of her was enough to raise his spirits and everything else. He glanced down at himself, but it was the need of his bladder rather than the need for his wife that was making him tumescent right now.
He stretched, heard the familiar sinewy crack of his shield-arm and sought out the chamber pot. He felt almost cheerful now that he had made the decision to to take Heulwen with him. The notion of leaving her behind had been part of his reluctance to go on this journey he had been asked to undertake. Her reaction had been important too when he told her the reason for his going. No scorn or revulsion, just a practical acceptance and words of common sense that put his fears into their true perspective. He had been tail-chasing again.
‘Be sure to pack the wolf brooch,’ he said over his shoulder with a wry smile.
Chapter 19
The cockerel was a jewelled image cast in living bronze, and looked as though he had just stepped down from a weather vane to strut in the dust. Alert topaz eyes swivelled to study his surroundings. His coral comb and wattles jiggled proudly on head and throat as he paraded the circle, his tail a light-catching cascade of green- tipped gold, legs cobbled in bronze and armed with deadly spurs. Here in the city of Angers he was without rival, for all his rivals were dead.
He stretched his throat, raising a ruff of bright feathers, and crowed. Bets were laid. His owner rose from a lithe crouch, and with his hands on his exquisite gilded belt, he looked round impatiently.
‘He’s late,’ grumbled Geoffrey Plantagenet, heir to the Duchy of Anjou. He was almost as fine to look upon as his fighting cock, being tall with ruddy golden curls and brilliant frost-grey eyes. Thread-of-gold crusted the throat and cuffs of his tunic, and the dagger at his narrow hips blazed with gems; like his bird’s spurs it was honed to a wicked edge.
‘Have you ever known William le Clito not to be late?’ snorted Robert de Blou, watching the bird which had originally been his gift to the youth at his side. ‘He’d miss his own funeral, that one.’
Geoffrey flashed a white grin, but his fingers tapped irritably against his belt. ‘He will need to shape better than this if he wants my father’s continued support against the English King.’
‘My lord, he’s here now!’ cried another baron, pointing towards the river. Geoffrey turned his head and with a cool gaze watched the approach of William le Clito and his small entourage of mongrels — Norman malcontents, Flemings and Frenchmen, and the tall yellow-haired English knight who had been banished from his own country for the murder of a fellow baron.
‘You are late,’ he addressed the would-be Duke of Normandy who had recently married the French king’s sister. Geoffrey passed an indifferent look over the women they had brought with them. Not obviously strumpets by their appearance, but strumpets nevertheless. Le Clito might be a new husband but it was no reason for continence when a diplomatic visit to Anjou offered the chance of easy sin.
Le Clito gave Geoffrey a smile of blinding charm which, because he used it so often, had lost most of its impact. ‘My apologies. Our barge was held up. I’m not that late, am I?’ He touched the younger man’s shoulder with familiarity. Geoffrey stepped aside, nostrils flaring with controlled choler and regarded the bird that Warrin de Mortimer was holding under his arm — a handsome black, the feathers emerald-shot in the spring sunlight.
‘You wager that sorry object can beat my Topaze?’ he scoffed.
‘Name your price and we shall soon see,’ le Clito answered jauntily. ‘Warrin, put him down.’
Someone scooped up Geoffrey’s bird so that men could look at the form and condition of the black and make their wagers. The cockerel shook its ruffled feathers and preened, and stretched on elegant tiptoe to crow defiance.
Warrin de Mortimer leaned against the wall and rubbed his side where the thick, pink ridge of scar tissue was irritating him. He looked at the black and knew full well that Geoffrey’s bird would win because Geoffrey of Anjou always won. He had never had to beg at other men’s tables for his meat. His fingers paused directly over the scar: his own fault. He had underestimated de Lacey’s speed, forgotten to allow for the years of experience that followed squirehood. For that particular error of judgement he was now an outcast in the land where he had been his father’s heir, reduced to the status of plain household knight in the pay of a man whose own luck was about as reliable as a whore’s promise.
‘Are you not wagering,
Which showed how much Heloise knew about cock-fighting, or indeed about anything. All her brains were between her legs — which had not seemed such a bad thing last night. A pity she had to open her mouth as well as her thighs.
‘No,’ he said with a sullen half-shrug. ‘I’m not wagering.’ These days money was too important to fritter away on the fickle prowess of a fighting cock. His father haphazardly sent him funds and assurances that he would have him pardoned and reinstated in England by the time of the next Christmas feast, but neither money nor promises were reliable.
The girl pouted and turned away. He wondered if she was worth it and decided she wasn’t — no woman was — and it was at that point that he looked up and across the thoroughfare spotted Heulwen.
The cocks struck together in a rattling flurry of bronze and black feathers. Beaks stabbed, spurs flashed. They danced breast to breast in midair and the men danced too, yelling, exhorting; and over their heads, ignoring their noise, ignoring the birds, Warrin de Mortimer stared and stared, not believing his eyes, not wanting to believe his eyes. His heart began to pound. His breath grew shaky and the hot scar pulsed against his ribs.
The birds parted, beaks agape, wings adrift in the dust, circling each other and clashing together again. Dark blood dripped into the ground. Warrin left his leman, and ignoring her querulous enquiry skirted the circle of raucous, intent spectators to step out into the open street.
Adam glanced across briefly to the cockfight, drawn by the bellows of the crowd rather than by any real interest in the sport. Nobility, he realised, for the sun flashed off jewelled tunics, belts and weapon hilts.
‘Miles — my brother I mean, not Grandpa, used to own a fighting cock,’ Heulwen reminisced. ‘Mama never
